


when it's all over

by cricket_girl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Headcanon, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Short One Shot, a collection of memories, i'll tag things as they come up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 09:09:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23468944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cricket_girl/pseuds/cricket_girl
Summary: a collection of eclectic memories from a girl who never really got the chance to grow up.
Kudos: 3





	1. buttons

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Lamb Before the Slaughter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15425364) by [cricket_girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cricket_girl/pseuds/cricket_girl), [MerryMandolin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerryMandolin/pseuds/MerryMandolin). 



> this is sort of meant to be a supplement to my main fanfic. lily was never developed and it's always bothered me. so, over time, i plan to place what memories i think of here. memories that will often make more sense the further my other story goes along. what this amounts to is an inventory of my headcanons with regard to who lily was, what her life was like, what was most important to her, and the harder realities that harry may have to come to face one day.
> 
> trigger warning: mentions of the Holocaust

She lies lop-sided on the border between the living room and the kitchen because Petunia is too old for this.

 _Grandpa is boring,_ she says. _He wants to talk about the buttons again._

She says this as if it’s about her; as if it weren’t Lily’s birthday on Thursday. She says this as if it isn’t the 27th; as if she isn’t jealous of the fact that he’s passed her over because he considers the three day separation some sort of sign.

This is Lily’s inheritance and Petunia compensates by convincing herself that there was never a reason to want it at all.

His shoes smell like dead ladybugs and grass; he leaves a wet stain on her shoulder when he pokes her with the tip of his boot, looking down from the kitchen table.

“How’s Severus?”

He checks up on her friends. An old habit. It’s about the first thing he asks everyone.

“He’s okay,” she lies.

And he knows that.

But he doesn’t ask anything else.

His bones creak as he pulls the worn shoe box closer, the pads of his calloused fingers playing with the frayed edges of the lid.

“Do you think it’s this year?” he asks.

Her eyes glimmer as her head lifts slightly to look at him. “Do you want it to be this year?”

He’s quiet. Probably because he’s not ready yet.

But then, “I want to remember Masha today.”

On cue, Lily sits up. Her hair falls crumpled and messy on her shoulders. “Then let’s remember Masha.”

They say you only truly die when the last person who remembers you passes on. And that’s why it’s important for Grandpa to remember, because some part of Masha still lives. He’ll keep living so long as Lily remembers, too.

She knows the story by heart.

She knows of the elections; of the Chancellor; of the fire; of the broken glass; of the parades; of the ghettos; of the trains.

Of the morning when they were forced to run in circles; of the moment when Masha collapsed of exhaustion into the mud; of how Grandpa was punished when he helped Masha to stand; of how they desperately held each other as the guards pulled Masha toward the barracks after the boy dared to hit the guard beating Grandpa; of how Masha’s buttons tore from his shirt from the strength of the pull.

Of the fear on Masha’s face; of the buttons that Grandpa never let go of.

Of Masha’s disappearance and the day that dragged on without him.

Of the collection of buttons that Grandpa amassed from the empty pyjamas he was forced to sort through after the showers no one came out of.

Of how he began to keep track; one button, one life.

Of how that pile began to become impossibly big, unfathomably numerous.

Of how when he thought he was closest to death was when he was nearest to being saved.

Of the Soviets; of the liberation. The 27th of January.

Of how when he walked out of that camp, he had nothing.

Nothing but the buttons and the memories and the ghosts.

She doesn’t cry at the end anymore, but only because Grandpa has stopped, too. The pain is an ache he’s acclimated to. It’s dulled over years of marriage, of children’s birthdays, of jobs gained and lost, of changed habits, of immigration. He’s changed his name and no longer observes Shabbat. His faith is another body that stayed rotting in the camp.

It hurts her to know, sometimes. She doesn’t know if it’s because she thinks she believes in God, or if it’s because she wants to be closer to a part of her that’s felt distant, indistinct, undefinable.

When she learned she was a witch, she thought she’d gotten closer.

All she learned is that this was the pain of disconnect and diaspora.

She blinks and her chin is on his knee. His hand is on the top of her head.

She’s three days from being twelve and for the first time, Grandpa lowers the box into her hands.


	2. loss

When she arrives at the place where she isn't wanted, she still finds herself shocked when Severus tries to kick her out.

“ _Lily,_ ” is what he says; what she hears is, _I told you not to._

Her face scrunches up as she tries to force a lop-sided smile. “You can’t seriously think I’d let you do this by yourself?”

His expression deadens in the same way it has a million times before, when he’s thinking things he’s wanting to say, but won’t. Because he knows better.

She doesn’t know where he got that idea.

One of his hands is on the door jamb and the other is poised on the knob. It’s only open an inch. The only reason he hasn’t made a move is because Lily’s foot is in between them, and he knows it’s dumb to play chicken with a Gryffindor.

It’s a game Lily always wins.

Like most of their games.

Like how she’ll win this, too.

She tries it his way. “You just said not to come to the funeral.”

His eyes go half-lidded and, tight mouthed, his head dips marginally, letting curtains of hair fall over the sides of his cheeks.

She didn’t realize how red they were until the black was there in contrast.

And, despite herself, a natural impulse takes over. “ _Sev--_ ” A mournful coo that underpins the way her hand goes to his arm. His muscles tense and although she knows that’s rejection, she refuses to let go.

Because she knows what’s best, sometimes. And he knows that too.

“I know Tobias isn’t home,” she needles in a soft voice. “I made sure to wait until he was gone. I wasn’t dumb.”

“I didn’t say you were,” his words limp out.

The way his arm remains rigid against her palm tells her she needs to let go. Instead, her eyes brighten as she takes a step forward, letting her other hand rest on his shoulder. “How about a sleepover? Mum’s making pot roast tonight and--”

“No.”

It’s not like his objection hurts her. It just scares her a little. Because she understands what’s not being said, and she doesn’t want to hear it.

So she gets tough. “Well, I’m not leaving.”

His mouth twitches.

So she over explains. “What kind of friend would I be if I left, huh? You knew what you were getting into with a Gryffindor for a best friend, yeah? And, uh-- look, I know everything’s been kind of weird… and this summer’s been so busy, but--”

His eyes glaze over.

So she begs. “ _Sev._ ”

He stands there, set in stone.

So she decides what’s best. “Your mum just died, okay? I’m staying.”

He barely resists when she pushes her way inside.

And she begins to lose steam. She has no idea what the next step is; she’s thirteen and this is entirely new territory. She’s thirteen and realizing that just because she pushes doesn’t mean he’s going to capitulate. She can’t make him do anything, not like she used to. They’re thirteen and equally stubborn and unable to give ground.

He stands there in the entryway, the door gaped open behind him.

“So, what do you want to do?”

Asked as if she doesn’t already know that it’s a useless question; as if she already doesn’t know that he’s not going to play along. So her eyes nervously trace around the threadbare suit sitting over-sized on his emaciated frame; around the broken and cheap clutter lining the entryway (the scratched coat hanger, the worn shoes, the stained rug). She tries to ignore the empty whiskey bottle on the floor in the living room. She tries to ignore the stale smell.

Because Eileen isn’t there anymore.

And this house is starting to rot without her.

Lily’s hands clasp together as she takes a tentative step toward Severus. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He won’t look at her.

“I know it’s not the same, but,” she tries, her voice gentle. “When my Grandpa died--”

“ _Don’t._ ”

His harsh conviction is a punch in the gut. Immediately, she takes in a breath. She nods.

The open door stands there like a challenge. And as she fidgets in place, trying to figure out what the next step is, her eyes can’t help but dart to it. She cannot help but feel pressured by its suggestion.

“We can read,” she fumbles. “Like together? We still have that summer lesson for Slughorn. Have you started yet?”

Severus’s shoulders plane downward.

“Dumb question, right,” she nervously laughs. “Of course you have--”

“I haven’t.”

Her neck feels stiff. “Right, well--”

There’s silence again. The door is staring at her.

And suddenly, she’s overcome with an idea.

It’s violent and electric. It leads her to quickly shift forward and grab Severus up the stairs. To drag him down the hallway his feet resist to go down. To guide him to a door that hasn’t been opened for a week.

Her room smells like death, but not in the way you think. It smells like loss in the way abandonment leaves an emptiness that air cannot settle in. Her sheets are gone. Her window is half open and it is cold. The last of her clothes are still hanging out of the mouth of the hamper near the door. When she arrives, her conviction shudders. Her room feels like death, but in the way fear tastes when you wade in the helplessness of a situation you cannot change.

Eileen is gone but she is everywhere.

She infects every inch of plywood, every seam of fabric, every object that lays haphazard in the last place she’d left it.

That’s what Lily was banking on, anyway. That was the point of this idea.

But being here, she feels herself hesitate.

And Severus’s hand lays limp and unwelcome in hers. She’s dragged him here in this exercise that's only seeming more and more stupid the more she waits, and she has no choice but to commit.

When she takes her first step into that room, it feels wrong. It feels like invasion. But she turns to him anyway. “Let’s take one thing.”

Severus’s eyes are on the floor.

“Something to remember her by,” Lily presses.

The air is unbreathable. “Just one thing, Sev? One thing?”

But he doesn’t comply, and she’s suddenly desperate.

Eileen’s room is a dive into depths she couldn’t fathom how to brave. And she’s frantic, traversing the heaviness, to grab objects at random. A hair brush. A perfume bottle. A stirring stick. An unwashed shirt. A shoe. A book. A pencil.

She reemerges to safer waters of the hallway to give them to him. They each fall from his numb fingers to the floor with an insignificant, yet deafening, clatter.

She keeps picking them up in vain hope she can make them stick, not understanding that he won’t let them.

“ _Sev,_ ” she pleas, not realizing that she’s crying. “This is how we remember.”

She dives back down, brings something he doesn’t want, and tells him, _this is how we remember._ As if her grandfather’s words are of a wisdom beyond reproach. As if this can help. As if he would just _listen_ and _do what she says,_ he’ll heal. As if she knows best. Because she knows she does. She _always_ does--

When a glass potion vial slips to the ground and shatters underfoot, she sees it.

He’s looking at her. His tears are painful.

“ _Sev--_ ”

“I should walk you home.” His voice doesn’t betray the sadness she can clearly see. For some reason, that hurts more than anything else. “Before my dad gets back.”

Lily is thirteen and she realizes she doesn’t know how to be Severus’s friend.


End file.
